Berthold Auerbach

Through Irma's sudden flight, Baum's occupation was gone. He returned to where she was to have waited for him, and found that she had disappeared. He gazed into the distance, but saw nothing. A dog following its master's track was better off than he, for while instinct would help it, man could only guess.

Had she flown? and if so, whither? Why had she done so? and what, under such circumstances, was the duty of a subordinate? Ought he to pursue her who had sent him back? She had honestly and frankly sent the dog home; but the servant was only human and must therefore be imposed upon.

"For shame, Countess! Thus to fool a poor servant who dare not disobey!" said Baum, speaking to himself. He felt that now, for the first time, he was put to the great test, and that this was the time to prove himself a reasoning servant. Perhaps the letters he had brought contained an appointment for this evening. They are at the hunt and, as if by chance, meet in the woods; for it would not do to visit Wildenort openly, as it was but a short time since they had gone into mourning there. And so they mean to keep even the servant in ignorance of their plans. But why should they? He could have been depended upon.

But perhaps the countess had escaped after all.

But why? and whither?

They had shown so much confidence in him. The head chamberlain had told him before leaving: "You're always to remain near the countess, always--do you understand? And you are to conduct her back to court." Could they have dreamt that she meant to escape? and if so, why should they only half trust him?

"I am innocent!" exclaimed Baum; but what avails innocence? It was more important to be clever and sensible.

Baum's master, Baroness Steigeneck's chief chamberlain, had imparted some valuable precepts to him. "There are two things," said he, "that a good servant should always have with him--a sharp knife and a good watch. When anything happens that disconcerts you, take out your watch, count off ten seconds, and then make up your mind what is best to be done."

One disadvantage possessed by this precept, in common with many other good ones, is the great danger of your forgetting it when excited.

Baum rode back to the castle. Perhaps the countess had returned by some other road; perhaps her maid could tell him where she had intended to ride to. He asked the maid: "Is your mistress here?"

"No; she rode out with you."

"Don't you know where she intended going?"

"Has she left you? Oh, God! now she'll do it, for sure."

"What do you mean?"

"I've already told the count, that I believed she'd take her life. I believe she has either poison or a dagger with her; she'll kill herself."

"If she meant to take her life that way, she might have done so in her room," replied Baum.

"Yes, yes! It was only last night that she cried out in her sleep, 'Deep in the lake!' Oh gracious heavens! my dear, lovely countess is dead! Oh, what an unhappy creature I am! what will become of me!"

Baum endeavored to pacify her, and inquired whether the countess had left any papers anywhere.

The writing-desk was open and papers were strewn about on it. They found a letter directed to the queen. Baum wanted to take it, but the maid would not give it up. She would not suffer a stranger to pry into her mistress's secrets.

In the midst of the dispute, Baum suddenly took out his watch. The chamberlain's advice had occurred to him. He looked fixedly at the dial, and when he had finished counting ten, he nodded with a self-satisfied air, for he had regained his presence of mind.

Very well, the maid might deliver the letter herself; that would neither help nor hinder matters. But he would now show himself worthy of the greatest confidence. His task was to institute inquiries; perhaps he might yet save the countess.

While the maid, who was hastily putting the letter into her pocket, had turned her back upon him, he saw another letter addressed "To my friend." He quickly perceived that this was of far greater value than the other, and put it into his own pocket. He well knew that there was only one person for whom it could be intended and he knew who that person was. The maid had heard the rustling of the paper, and now asked him to give it to her. Baum ran out of the room and summoned the servants. The maid followed him, and he now quickly changed the attitude of defense for one of attack, and demanded the letter to the queen, in order that he might open it and thus obtain some clue as to the countess's whereabouts. He said that he would hold the maid responsible for the consequences. She ran away, and he made no further attempt to carry out his plan, for he did not know whether he had a right to open the letter. At any rate, he had undisputed possession of the more important epistle to the king. He ordered the groom to saddle another horse and accompany him.

The rosy sunset was already gilding the windows of the castle when the two horsemen rode forth. But whither?

They questioned a laborer working on the road, but he had seen nothing of the countess. They saw a shepherd driving his flock homeward, and, riding up to him, they inquired whether he had seen her. He nodded affirmatively, but the loud bleating of the sheep prevented them from hearing what he said. Baum alighted, and learned from him that the countess had been seen riding full tilt along the road that led to the Chamois hill.

"She sits her horse firmly, and rides very well," said the shepherd, praising her.

This was a clue, at all events. They rode off, at full gallop, in the direction indicated. When they reached the drained marsh, they heard the neighing of a horse. They rode up to it, and found that it was Irma's saddle-horse, quietly grazing, but bridle and girth were covered with thick foam. "The countess has been thrown. Who knows where she may be lying, weak and faint?" said Baum. He meant to be discreet, and was in no hurry to tell all to the groom.

They searched for her everywhere, and called out her name again and again. They found nothing, nor did they receive any answer. Baum discovered the horse's tracks, but was somewhat confused by them, as it had taken the same path going and returning. They took the horse with them, but did not mount, for it was necessary to find out where the track led to. Baum's keen eye enabled him to distinguish the hoof-prints in the twilight.

"If we only had the dog with us; he knows her. Why didn't you bring the dog with you?" he asked angrily.

"You didn't say anything about it."

"Ride back and bring him. No, stay; I can't be here alone."

They reached the Chamois hill. "Let's turn aside, into the wood," cried Baum.

He now found use for his good knife. He gathered some of the brushwood, bound it together into a torch, kindled it, and its light enabled him to find the track. It was here that the horse had turned. There were also prints of a woman's foot going in the opposite direction. He followed them for a few paces and then lost the track.

"She must be here," said Baum. "It was from here that she went down into the wood; I know every spot about here. Keep to the left with the two horses, but always near enough to hear my voice. I'll keep to the right with one."

They searched and shouted, but found nothing. At last they met again. A stag rushed by. Could it have spoken, it might have told them where Irma had startled it from its resting-place--a full hour's walk from where they then were.

"If you find her, you'll be handsomely rewarded," said Baum to the groom. He addressed him in the way he thought his royal master would have done.

They spent the greater part of the night wandering in the forest. At last they were obliged to lie down and wait for the daylight, for there was no longer a path by which to lead the horses.

The day was far advanced when Baum and the groom awoke. They could see the sparkling lake from afar, and could hear the sounds of distant music, while the rock near which they stood echoed the reports of cannon.

Baum took the pistols from the saddle-pouch and fired them off in rapid succession. Then he listened with bated breath, thinking that if Irma were anywhere in the neighborhood, she would hear the shots and give some sign of her whereabouts; but not a sound was heard.

They now found a forest-path leading down toward the lake. They reached the water's edge. At their feet lay the lake, smooth as a mirror and stretching away for miles. Who knew what lay concealed within its depths? In the distance, there was a boat with people and beasts aboard, and now the boat reached the shore. Baum's companion turned to the other side, where there were a few scattered farmhouses and fishermen's huts. Man and beast were worn out and needed rest. Baum asked every one he met whether they had seen a lady in a blue riding-habit and wearing a hat with a feather; but he could find no trace of her anywhere.

"Stop!" at last said a little old man who was cutting willows by the lake: "I've seen her."

"Where? When?"

"Over there in the tavern. It's almost a year ago; she lived there a good many weeks."

Baum cursed the peasant folk for a stupid set.

Fortunately, he met a gend'arme and told him who he was and whom he was looking for. He then sent the groom back to Wildenort with the lady's saddle. Placing his own saddle on Pluto, he rode along the edge of the lake with the gend'arme. On a rock near the shore, they soon saw a figure holding out a hat with a feather on it. They made for the spot, at full speed, Baum recognized his brother Thomas, and was so startled that he lost his stirrup.

If it were he who had robbed and murdered the countess!

The gend'arme knew the wild fellow. Thomas stared and grinned at them both. His hair was wet and his clothes were dripping.

"What are you doing there?" cried the gend'arme. "Whose hat is that?"

"That's none of your business," replied Thomas, his teeth chattering with the cold.

Baum offered the shivering man his brandy flask, and Thomas took a long draught. Then, with mingled rage and sorrow, he told them that the king's sweetheart had lost her way the night before and had come to their hut, and that she had led away his sister to plunge into the lake with her. He had come too late; he had seen something floating on the water and had jumped in to save her, but the hat was all he had found.

The gend'arme was not inclined to believe Thomas's story, and would have arrested him forthwith, if Baum had not whispered to him that there was no doubt that the lady had drowned herself, and that there was no murder in the case. He was moved by a feeling akin to pity for his brother, and did not wish to have him arrested.

"Come here!" said Baum to Thomas. "Let's make an exchange. I'll give you my flask--there's a good deal in it yet--for the hat."

"Oh no! I know who the hat belongs to: it's worth a lot, and I'll take it to the king."

"He still has got his sweetheart's hat,

Though she lies in the lake;

And since she's drowned, another love

Right gladly will he take,"

sang Thomas, with heavy voice, while he threw the hat up into the air and caught it again.

The gend'arme wanted to give Thomas a beating; Baum restrained him, however, and then walked up to Thomas and placed his hand upon his shoulder. Thomas started, but suddenly grew quiet, and looked at Baum as if afraid of him. Baum spoke to him with a condescending air, and Thomas listened, with mouth agape, as if trying to recollect something, he knew not what. The voice, and the hand upon his shoulder, made quite another man of him, and the savage, murderous fellow wept.

"Will you give me the hat for a gold piece, or must it be taken from you by force? You see we're two to one, and can master you," said Baum.

Without saying a word, Thomas handed him the hat, and when Baum gave him the gold piece, Thomas could not close his hand on it. As if quite bewildered, he looked now at the gold piece, now at the giver.

Baum spoke to him earnestly, and told him that he ought to give some of the money to his mother, if he still had one.

"A mother?" stammered Thomas, looking at Baum with a glassy eye. "A mother!" he repeated, as if reminded of something long forgotten.

The gend'arme was touched by the lackey's generosity. "He must be a very fine man," thought he.

Thomas again told them that Irma had been at their hut the night before, and that his mother knew more about her than he did, for she had been alone with her. Baum and the gend'arme said they would like to talk with his mother, and Thomas guided them to the hut.

On the way there, the gend'arme informed Baum of Thomas's family history. "You see, the fellow's a brawler, and has often been convicted of poaching. I've often advised him to emigrate to America, for there he can hunt as much as he pleases. He has a brother in America--a twin brother, but he must be a good-for-nothing fellow; that is, if he isn't dead. He's never yet written a line to his mother or his brother, and has never sent home as much as you could put in your eye. But that's the way they all become, after they get to America. A good many have gone there from my place, but they're all selfish, good-for-nothing fellows."

Baum smiled. He had need of all his self-command. He scarcely spoke a word, for he was nerving himself for the meeting with his mother, and felt annoyed that she, too, was mixed up in this affair. He had enough to think of without that.

The gend'arme knew many stories about poachers and other outlaws and, in order to beguile the time and entertain Baum, recounted some of them. Such stories, however, have one unpleasant feature. It is rather uncomfortable to listen to them, unless one's hands are free from guilt. Baum nodded to him graciously, for it would not do, by look or manner, to betray that he was in the least related to the abandoned wretch who was walking ahead of them. The gend'arme said that he had once been bitten in the finger by a murderer, whom he had helped to arrest, and he showed Baum the scar.

Baum, at last, endeavored to put an end to these terrible stories. He asked the gend'arme what regiment he had served in, and put the question as graciously as if he were about to draw a medal from his pocket and bestow it on the man. Now nothing can be pleasanter than to recount one's military experiences. The forester told of his many exploits, laughing heartily at his own stories, and Baum, seeing no help for it, joined in the laughter. Thomas, who was walking on before, turned around and grinned, and then went on. They reached the hut. It was empty. Old Zenza had disappeared.

"She's looking for Esther, I'm sure," said Thomas.

"What's the matter with Black Esther?" asked the gend'arme.

"Black Esther!" repeated Thomas; "ha! ha! the lake'll wash her white now. If any one would pay me well for it, I'd jump in, too."

He threw himself on the sack of leaves, and silently looked at the hands with which he had beaten Esther last night. Then he threw his head back and fell into a heavy sleep, and they could not get a word out of him. Baum and the gend'arme rode away, intending to return to the lake, in order to pursue their inquiries, and to leave directions everywhere that the search should be kept up. Emerging from the forest, they gained the highway, and here it was that they had met the covered wagon.

They were again riding along the lake at a quiet pace. A large red cow was walking along ahead of them. It stopped now and then to nibble the grass and would look across the lake. When it came to a thicket, it started, turned about quickly and ran so fast that it almost rushed against Baum's horse.

"That cow has shied at something. There must be something lying there," said Baum, quickly alighting. His dyed hair rose on end, for he felt sure that they would find Irma's dead body the next moment. And he really did find something; for there lay Irma's torn shoes. He knew them. There were blood stains, too, and the grass was crushed, as if a human being had lain there and rolled about in pain.

Baum's hand trembled as he took up the shoes, and he trembled still more when he plucked a little flower. It was a simple leaf cup--the so-called "our-lady's-man tie," the best mountain fodder--and in this little flower there were drops of blood which were still moist.

If she had drowned herself, how had the blood got there? and whence the shoes? and why should the shoes be so far from where Thomas had found the hat? and besides, there were the footprints of larger shoes. If Irma had been murdered, after all! If his brother--

"She's dead, that's the main point," said Baum, consoling himself, "and I have the proofs. What good would it do to draw another being into trouble?" He put the little blood-besprinkled plant away with the letter addressed "To my friend."

Accompanied by the gend'arme, he went to the inn at the landing-place where the wanderers had halted that morning.

The gend'arme again inquired about the lady in the blue riding-habit.

The manner of the hostess showed that the gend'arme's question had set her thinking. Could it have been the crazy woman who was with the travelers? There had been so much running hither and thither and carrying of bundles of clothes, and she had such a queer look about her.

"Do you know anything about it?" said the gend'arme, looking her straight in the face, "speak out!"

"I don't know a thing," said the hostess. "Did I say a word? What do you want of me?"

There is nothing which the country people dread so much as being called into court in order to bear witness, and so the hostess was careful not to utter a single word that might lead to such a result.

Baum saw that he had made a mistake in taking the gend'arme with him, for his presence alarmed those who might really have something to tell. He, therefore, sent him off, so that he might make further inquiries on his own account.

Baum stood before a looking-glass, combing and brushing his dyed hair which, that day, was unusually refractory. For the first time in his life he was perfectly modest. He admitted to himself that, after all, he was not the right man to follow up such an affair, and that he had wasted too much time already. Others would be before him in profiting by whatever advantage was to be gained from Irma's death. He felt that he had better hurry back to the palace, and that there were others there, enough of them, too, who could work up such a case far better than he.

He endeavored to sound the hostess, who, he still thought, knew something of the affair. But he was unsuccessful, for she had not forgotten his comrade, the gend'arme, nor did it help, in the least, when he pointed to his buttons and informed her that he was the king's lackey.

It suddenly occurred to him that Walpurga lived in the neighborhood. It was scarcely a year since he had been here with Doctor Sixtus. Irma had always been a friend of Walpurga's, and perhaps was now hiding with her--such high-flown people were capable of anything.

The large boat still lay before the inn. Baum, taking his horse with him, went on board and ordered them to put off at once. He permitted a laborer who arrived with a great barrow-load of hay, which he had gathered on the most dangerous crags, to cross in the same boat with him. They put off. Baum lay down on the wild hay, feeling completely worn out.

He asked the boatman whether they had seen anything of a drowned person. They answered that, in the morning, a human head with long hair had been seen rising to the surface, and that, in all likelihood, it was a woman.

Baum suddenly drew himself up and, with a bewildered look, gazed over the sparkling surface of the lake. "If the gentleman would like to wait," said the elder boatman to Baum, "the lake will give up its dead at the end of three days." Baum did not care to hear any more; he merely felt in his pocket, to make sure that he still possessed the letter and the blood-stained flower. Having satisfied himself on this point, he stretched himself still more comfortably than before and fell asleep. It was not until the boat struck against the shore that he awoke.

There was no longer any need of hunting up Walpurga; but he did so, nevertheless, in order to show that he had left nothing undone. He went up to the cottage by the lake and knocked at the door. There was no answer. He looked in at the window. Two large cat's eyes were staring at him. The cat was sitting on the ledge. She was the only one who had remained behind. The room was completely dismantled; not a table or even a chair was to be seen. As if in a dream, or under the influence of a magic spell, he walked back again through the garden.

A chattering magpie sat up in the leafless cherry-tree; but not a human being was visible. At last a man passed by. Baum recognized him; it was tailor Schneck.

"Say!" he called out, "what's become of Hansei and Walpurga?"

"They're gone over the mountains. They've moved away and bought a great farm. They call it the freehold; it's way down by the frontier."

Tailor Schneck was in a talkative mood, and inquired whether the gentleman had brought anything from the king and queen. But Baum was sparing of his words. He mounted his horse and rode off in the direction of the summer palace.

In the midst of the hurry and excitement, he had retained enough composure to calculate how this event might serve as a springing-board from which he could bound into a higher position. Henceforth, he would be the king's confidant. He alone knew what had happened and how it had all come about. He looked at the hand which the king would press in gratitude, and felt as if the king had done so already. The head chamberlain was old and decrepit; he would surely step into his place. It would have been better, of course, if he could have reported that Irma had been murdered--the gend'arme, like a sleuth-hound, had found a clue--But no; that wouldn't do; it was his brother, after all--although it might be better for him if he were obliged to spend the rest of his days behind the prison bars. He resolved that he would be very good to his mother and brother--that is, after he had become head chamberlain. His sister was dead,--and it was a great pity, too--but he would surely do this, if he got on and if the king should give him lots of money and a good life annuity. Baum was bold enough to tell God that he ought to aid him in obtaining what he wanted, as he meant to do good with it.

As he rode on through the darkness, he would sometimes catch himself falling asleep, for it was the second night he had spent in such unrest--his thoughts were confused and bewildered.

At the last post-house, he left his horse and took a post-chaise.

It was early in the morning when the carriage arrived at the summer palace. They found it difficult to arouse Baum, and it was some time before he was fully awake and could recollect where he was and what he had brought with him.

Various court carriages were in waiting, and fine saddle-horses were being led from the stables. Baum scarcely heard the salutations of his comrades and the grooms. He entered the palace and ascended the staircase. He was so completely worn out that he felt as if his knees would sink under him. He entered the king's ante-chamber. The old head chamberlain hastily took the pinch of snuff which he had been holding between his fingers, and offered his hand to Baum. Baum sank into a chair, and expressed a wish to be forthwith announced to his majesty.

"I can't yet. You must wait," replied the head chamberlain.

It was only by a violent effort that Baum was enabled to keep his seat and prevent himself from falling asleep.